by Matayo, Amy
Dillon shakes her head. “I just opened the door. This was lying right in front of it, but I saw more. What is this place?”
I have a suspicion, but it seems too bizarre to say it out loud. “I’m not sure. More importantly, what else is inside?” I sigh and answer my own question. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
I take a step forward, but she stops me with a hand on my arm. “You’re going inside?”
She’s worried. When I look up at the rotting door frame, so am I. “I don’t have a choice. There might be other things in there we can use. Like matches or…flares.”
Hope blooms in her expression, but she doesn’t let go. “Be careful. And don’t stay in there too long, okay?”
I chuck her under the chin and wink, trying to minimize her fears. “I won’t. Stand here and keep a look out, and I’ll be right back.”
She nods. I head inside.
There’s so much dust and dirt that at first I can’t process what I’m seeing. But then it all comes into focus. Lawn chairs. A raft. An old cabana—the sort used for selling drinks and dispensing beach towels. There are actual beach towels, white with green stripes, each stamped on one end with the same word. Majesty. There are sand buckets and seashells stacked in one corner, plastic shovels and…and… My jaw drops when I see it, and I throw up a victory punch. Whiskey. A single unopened bottle. Undoubtedly old as sin, but I’ll take it thank you very much.
I grab the bottle and spot one more thing. Something even better that makes this moment on par with winning the lottery. Maybe we just did. I reach for it and tuck it under my arm, thinking how much I can’t wait to show Dillon.
Every item in this room is usable, but not without a good scrubbing in ocean water. Except for the whiskey. It’ll work fine just the way it is.
A shadow falls over the room, and I hear lightning strike. Knowing I need to move quickly, I reach for two towels and the life raft and add them to the already bulging load in my arms, intending to carry them outside before coming back inside for the chairs and buckets, a much better tool for catching rain than the coconut halves.
Rain pelts my face in big, exploding drops.
The life raft catches on something, and I yank hard to free it.
That’s when something falls from the roof and hits me. Debris drifts down from the ceiling, something sharp and rough landing in my eye. Lightning strikes at the same time I fall and everything goes black.
The last thing I hear is the sound of Dillon’s screams.
CHAPTER 12
Day Three—afternoon
Dillon
If he dies, I will die. I meant it when I said it, but I didn’t know how true the words were until now.
I’ve always thought of myself as a loner, as an introvert who’s happiest when left in solitude. After all, I’m an only child; most of us like our space.
It’s the reason I push away boyfriends—and I do, push them away. Not intentionally, but when faced with the possibility of someone wanting to get to know me more than I’m comfortable with, I back up and close the door. Sure, I might leave a crack or two in case I have a last-second change of mind, but not enough space for a person to fit through. Later, I cry about being abandoned. In reality, I’m the one who does the leaving. I’m the one who consistently chooses unattainable, unavailable men so that I have no choice but to leave. I’m afraid of being left. More importantly, I’m afraid of leaving my parents with nothing. I can’t face handing them heartache twice.
Funny how clearly you see things when left with only yourself and your own personality defects.
Analyzing people is my passion, giving them direction for their lives is my calling. But I never, under any circumstance, give someone close enough access to analyze me. But in the split second I heard something crash inside the shack, I analyze myself.
If Liam dies, I won’t make it. I’m certain I will die too. A man I barely knew two days ago has become my lifeline to survival. My heart is pushed to the side as fear battles to take the top spot. Screams fill the air around me. It takes me a second to realize the sounds are coming from my own throat.
“Liam!”
“Liam!”
“Where are you?”
“Liam!”
I push open the door and search the room, then scream again when something moves to the right of me.
“Would you please stop screaming? I just knocked over this sign and it fell on my face. But I’m not hurt.”
Oh, thank God.
There’s an old black chalkboard lying on top of him, so I pull it off. He takes my hand, and I help him up as he quickly runs a hand over his eyes and mouth. Dust cakes his face except in the spots where his fingerprints leave streaks. Without thinking, I run my thumbs across his cheeks to wipe the dirt away, and only then realize I’m crying. My vision is too watery to tell if I’m helping or making things worse.
“Hey, why are you crying? I didn’t die.”
“You almost did.” It’s irrational, because he’s fine. Fear turns ordinary emotions into desperate ones.
“I didn’t almost die. A chalkboard fell on me, and it wasn’t even that heavy.” He hooks an arm around my neck and pulls me to him, and the stupid tears come harder. I grip his neck and have a meltdown all over it. “I thought something bad had happened to you and that I would be here all alone.”
His arms squeeze me a little tighter. “We just talked about this, remember? Nothing bad is going to happen to either one of us, because we’re not going to let it. I said so, and what I say goes.”
My laugh is wet and breathy. “Shut up, Liam.” He doesn’t let go of me, so I don’t let go either. “Just…don’t get hurt, okay? And don’t scare me like that again. Promise?”
“I’ll try not to. But it depends on how you feel about what I’m going to do when we leave here.”
My stomach drops. “What are you talking about?” Fear outlines my words. He must hear it, because he plants a soft kiss on my cheek before pulling back.
“I’m going to wade out into the ocean and catch fish.”
“How? We don’t have a fishing pole or—”
“No, but I found this.” Liam holds up a spear, one that’s old and a bit rusty at the tip, but with a little sharpening against a rock and some heat at the fire we still haven’t successfully built, it could work.
“Have you ever speared a fish before?”
“Nope, but the pioneers used these, so I’ll figure it out. Anything in order to eat something besides coconut. Help me get these things out of here, okay?”
I’m not certain his pioneer comment is correct, but I just nod and scan the room. There’s so much stuff in here, almost like it served a real purpose once upon a time. Like a yellowed wedding dress or a stack of leftover party favors; no longer needed but still with recognizable value. But what is it and why is it here? That’s what I can’t figure out. Someone left it behind. Is that someone coming back?
“What is all this stuff, and why is it here?”
Liam tucks a folding chair under his arm and reaches for a stack of small buckets. “I can’t be entirely sure, but you know how cruise ships have private islands and use as them for excursions?”
“Yes,” I say. Our ship was set to stop at something called Sandy Cay. It sounded exotic at first, but after I looked it up online, I saw that it was mainly just a crowded patch of land that sold drinks and offered free massage stations. “I think this used to be one of them. Look.”
He holds up a chair, a tri-fold blue one with a small tear in the seat. “It says Majesty right here. Everything does.”
“But Majesty is the name of our cruise line,” I say.
He smiles. “I know. So, if this is what I think it is—”
Blame it on the sun and intense hunger, but I finally get what he’s trying to say. “Then they know the island is here, and maybe they’ll eventually figure out we’re here too!” I jump up and down, overjoyed at the prospect.
Liam la
ughs. “I take it back. You’re cute when you scream.”
It’s the first flicker of hope I’ve felt since Oliver-who-cares-what-his-name-is left us in the ocean. They have to find us now, right? I’m certain they will. I pick up the deflated life raft and carry it through the door, then pause on the other side.
“Do you think we should clear a spot and sleep in here?” I ask. A roof would be nice. Four walls and something that passes for a bed would be better.
He sighs. “I thought about it, but I wonder if we should sleep close to the fire so we can keep it going all night. Just in case someone passes and we’re asleep.”
He’s right. My spirits deflate a bit, but he’s right. Now all we need is a fire. That, and for this rain to stop. “Hey, containers!” I pick up a bucket and turn it over in my hand. It’s as old and dirty like everything else, but it’s nothing a little salt water won’t cure. “I’ll take these down to the beach now and wash them before the rain lets up.”
With that, I take the buckets and raft, feeling much better than I did a few minutes ago.
“Still nothing?”
Liam tosses the sticks down in a heap with a frustrated groan. “I’ve been working at this forever and nothing is happening. I have no idea what I’m doing wrong.”
“Want me to try?” I ask.
He gestures dramatically at the sticks. “Be my guest.”
I don’t want to try, but his hands look raw and cut in a couple places. I pick up the sticks and sit cross-legged on the sand, surprised by how hot they are. He was probably closer to lighting them than he realized. It doesn’t take long for me to believe that rubbing two sticks together is nothing more than a line they fed you in Girl Scouts that doesn’t actually work. It doesn’t help that Liam is just staring at me. Even though my inhibitions about wearing a bikini in front of him are starting to fade—this is about survival now—that doesn’t mean I want him to just look at me.
“I’m fine here. You go catch some fish so I’ll have something to cook when this fire is blazing.”
“Confident, aren’t you.”
“I will light this fire or die trying.”
I hold my breath against a lecture, but he winks at me, then picks up the spear and walks down to the water. I hate the way my heart flips over with that wink, but not nearly as much as it does while I watch him.
He’s shirtless, fit and muscular like someone who works out on a regular basis; probably what gave him the strength to keep us going all that time in the ocean. He’s a little leaner than he was a couple days ago, but not too much so. A seventy-two-hour diet of only bananas and coconuts would do that to any man, I suppose. I’m still at the stage of hoping I’ve lost a little weight, but I know I won’t feel that way if we’re still here a week from now. His skin is less red than it was before and peeling in spots, especially around the shoulders. Considering the sun is making an appearance again, and there’s no good place to hide. We’ll get burned even more before this ordeal is over.
His back muscles ripple with every jab at the water. So far, the fish remain elusive but he doesn’t quit. Stab at the water, pull up, nothing—a thankless job considering it’s a pattern that repeats itself over and over. I’ve never prayed as much as I should, but I begin to pray for fish. Right now, it seems nearly as important as a rescue, if only to keep our spirits up.
He wades out a bit further, spear once again poised in the air and ready to strike. I keep watching, absentmindedly rubbing the sticks together while I scan the horizon for a ship, search the sky for a plane, and study Liam at the same time. Rub, check my surroundings, and repeat. Its seems Liam and I are having the same bad luck. This is a boring job with no payoff, and after only a handful of minutes it’s already driving me crazy.
Liam jabs the spear into the water, and pulls it up empty-handed again. I see his shoulders sag from here and send up another quick prayer. Keeping spirits up is important, but so is feeling useful. Also, the thought of eating fish for dinner makes my stomach growl almost painfully.
Liam crouches low and tiptoes in a circle; it’s amusing, almost like he is a bandit sneaking up on his next victim. Except the victim keeps escaping.
My hands start to ache, so I press each palm with my thumbs to rub the soreness out. The sun rages in the sky, heating up the sand around me. I’ve always loved the ocean and sand and surf, but I’m beginning to resent it all now. So much sun, so much heat so much—
“Ow!” I look at the sticks in surprise, wondering what in the world that was. I rub them together harder, and it happens again. A spark. I have a spark! I put more strength into it, ignoring the spot on my hand that burns.
Two more sparks fly, and I squeal. This should totally earn me the Girl Scout badge I didn’t get when I was ten. Using my bare feet, I push dried leaves together in a nice mound to make sure they’re ready, just in case. Smoke billows up from the sticks and then…
The sticks light.
I’m holding two flaming sticks in my hand because I did it.
I’m breathing fast and my heart feels like it’s about to beat out of my chest, and I’m so proud I can barely stand it.
Because we have a fire. Now we can eat and get rescued at the same time.
I gently lay the sticks down on top of the dried palm leaves, picking one up and holding it to the flame until it ignites. It catches, and in only a half-minute we have a full-blown fire. I study it for a moment, then look up to tell Liam the good news.
A fish is flopping at the end of his spear. I’m not sure what kind, and I don’t care. The good news just multiplied.
“I caught a red snapper!” he shouts.
“I built a fire!” I shout back.
He whoops and hollers in the water, and I laugh. Finally we have something to celebrate, so for the rest of the night…
We do.
CHAPTER 13
Onboard the Ship
He’d gotten word that the girl’s father had stayed behind at the last port to look for his daughter while the mother stayed here to see if she might show up. That should ease the captain’s conscience a bit, but it didn’t. He couldn’t get the mother’s words out of his head.
What kind of people are you that you would just leave her out there alone?
He’d seen this situation before…so many times before. Careless passengers who miss the boat and have to rejoin them at the next port via another cruise ship or a private water-taxi. And that’s only if they remembered to take their passports. If not, things were much more difficult. Hold-ups at the Embassy, extra security at the airports, pat downs, suspicions, questions. So many questions. He’d seen it take several days in the past. Eventually though, they made their way home.
But this time he couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut. A churning down deep, a shadow hovering overhead. Like the panic that comes from momentarily losing your child in a supermarket. Like that strange moment that descends right before you answer the phone—a foreboding of bad news on the other side—and being blindsided by the news of your youngest daughter’s horrible accident.
He told the mother he had three daughters.
He didn’t tell her that one of them had spent the last ten years living in a wheelchair with a brain so low-functioning that she could barely hold her head up. He didn’t tell her his daughter had to be fed with tubes coming out of her nose and hadn’t had an actual bite of anything since the accident. A drunk driver had plowed straight into her car door at full speed when his daughter was driving home from college to celebrate his birthday. His birthday. Something he would have to live with for the rest of his life. He no longer celebrated the passing years. How can you celebrate life on a day that—in most of the ways that matter—caused a beloved daughter’s death? No birthdays for him. Never again.
Doctors thought it a miracle his daughter had survived at all. He wasn’t sure if he thought it a miracle or a cruel twist of fate.
The drunk driver survived without a scr
atch.
That was the cruelest twist of all.
The captain checked on the missing girl again last night, asked a crew member to find out if she had ever been located. The woman came back with the news; the local police found a recent charge on the girl’s credit card, but the girl was still missing and the mother was beside herself. The combination was troubling, because although the authorities couldn’t pinpoint who made the charge, it was a clear indication that something was amiss. The obvious sign points to a runaway, but who runs away at twenty-eight years old?
As for the man she left with—Liam something or other—there was no word on him. To the captain’s knowledge, his parents hadn’t come forward, his brother seeming to be the only one concerned. The captain pictured both either living it up in Mexico City or buried at the bottom of the ocean, but he didn’t dare utter the thought and never would. The girl’s mother had made phone calls and filed complaints, hired a lawyer and threatened to sue. He knew the family didn’t have a leg to stand on—the rules were very clearly written in the contract and posted in so many places that no one could truly claim ignorance and garner much sympathy. Really, the entire situation was frivolous and stupid.
Still, the feeling persisted.
No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get the girl out of his mind.
They were in the middle of the Caribbean, hundreds of miles from the last port and too far away to be of any help. The captain looked out over the clear water. It was a beautiful night, the water smooth like glass with hardly a wave in sight. This was his favorite time of day, watching the sunset over the Caribbean and admiring the orange and red and blue hues. God’s best art work, his daughter used to call it. That was before.
She no longer uses words to communicate.
The weight of what-if would not leave his mind.
With a sigh, he picked up the phone and made a call.
CHAPTER 14
Day Four—morning